Unlocked.
Her dance con brio
was inspired by a spinner
growing more intense every second
until she was as luminous as lightning
but was it enough
to stand against night like white gold,
recalling Theia, a siren time traveler
gifted with stories of storms at sea.
She was the cynosure of all the moons
held in quiet repose with the lotus
as it floated near the spinner.
There’s less noise
with the window closed
but mountains call
the gaze to roam
.
we’re not talking weather
or stocks or death by committee
.
but the myth of serenity
as it floats like laughter
from some faraway childhood
a mourning dove’s call
dominates the moonlit hills
and there’s no answer
I’m in a place I must be quiet,
be reserved, behave.
It’s a genuine struggle, especially
some days when I want to laugh too loudly
and spin in a circle like in a meadow,
when I’d rather stare at the sky
and find us in cloud shapes
instead of endure corporate-speak
and carpeting and files.
.
Today I am purple inside and grey outside.
I avert my wild-eyes so no one notices.
I am behaving except in daydreams.
The window cracked open
by design or a forgotten thing,
air rushing in, hot and steamy
with summer breath
.
heavy with the last burst of green
before the brown of late season
grass and dried ponds
.
nowhere for frogs to go
but a leftover puddle
nothing to be done indoors
but watch through the window
.
a season that lingers
as dragonflies dance
quiet, with angular revelry.
The Word Rummager 